Origin Story
by panademonium
Summary: How Jesse Pinkman got into the meth business.


The bell rings, cutting Mr. White off mid-sentence.

Jesse doesn't wait. He kicks his chair back and hops to his feet, one step ahead of the rest of the class, making a beeline for the door. He's nearly reached it when his teacher's voice calls out from behind him, "Jesse, hang on a minute. I need to talk to you about something. If you would…"

No, he _would_ not, except he's going to get suspended if he gets one more detention, and then his mom and dad will kill him. Rolling his eyes, he stomps in exaggerated goose step all the way to the front of the classroom, where this nerdy old asshole is waiting for him with an expression that's supposed to be patient but reads like pure annoyance to Jesse's eyes. (Good.)

"Jesse," Mr. White says in a tone that's as fake as the look on his face, "do you know why I asked you to stay?"

"Uh, no?"

His teacher opens a folder and pulls out two papers. He sets them both side by side, and Jesse recognizes one as the quiz he took yesterday. The other belongs to the girl who sits in front of him. "I couldn't help but notice certain similarities between your test and Laura's," Mr. White says. "Do you see what I'm talking about?"

"No," Jesse answers automatically, without even looking.

"You both got the exact same answers."

"Uh, yeah?" Jesse replies, raising an eyebrow. "There's only one right answer, right? So..."

Mr. White flips the papers over. "Yes, but do you see this? You've both got the same wrong answers, as well."

"Oh, what. You saying she copied me?"

"Jesse…" Mr. White looks at him sternly over the rims of his glasses. Not buying it.

But he persists. "_What?_"

Mr. White picks up both papers and reads one of the questions: "'What is metathesis? Give an example.' Go ahead, Jesse. You've articulated it very clearly here on your quiz, so you obviously know the answer. Let's hear it."

"Um…" Yeah, he doesn't have a clue.

"That's what I thought," Mr. White says, and Jesse's face starts to burn. An agonizing moment of silence fills the space between them while Mr. White pulls out a red marker and writes a great big **F** across the top of Jesse's quiz. He takes his time with it, like he's enjoying this slow degrading torture of his young student.

"Can I _go_ now?" Jesse huffs, trying not to shrink under Mr. White's long stare.

Mr. White maintains his languorous pace in capping the marker and setting it back in its cup. "You realize I have to give you detention for this, right?" he says as he selects another pen and turns to his stack of disciplinary slips.

* * *

"He's such a _dick_," spits Jesse, kicking at the brick that makes up the outer wall of the gymnasium. "Oughta go out and find his car and slash his tires or something. Fuckin' show him. _Metathize this_, you know?"

"Yo, but like… He'll totally know it was you if you do it now," Badger points out as he exhales a stream of smoke. "You could get _arrested_. That's shit's major rap."

"Yeahhh," Pete pipes up. "You gotta be all stealthy about it. Like, three weeks from now? _Bam_. Bitch won't know what hit 'im."

"Whatever, man," Jesse sighs, giving up on attacking the wall in favor of leaning against it. He stares despondently at the sky for a moment before turning to Badger. "Can I get a hit of that?" The joint gets passed over and, after a few seconds, Jesse's nerves are somewhat soothed.

"Hey, Jess," Badger says, a little reluctantly. "Y'know, got love for a brother and all, but I can't keep spotting you. Green costs a lotta green, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Jesus, now you're giving me shit, too?"

"I'm just _saying_—"

Jesse pushes himself off the wall and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his enormous hoodie. "I gotta catch my ride," he grumbles through his teeth, stalking across the school lawn toward the parking lot without a glance back to his friends.

Emilio's not there yet and probably won't be for another ten minutes, so Jesse weaves between parked cars, idly checking each one he passes to see if it's locked. He finds three that aren't, and by the end of his journey, he's $13.07 richer and the owner of three new CDs. The rumble of a familiar exhaust calls him back across the parking lot, where Emilio's Mustang has at last arrived.

"Wu-Tang," Emilio notes as Jesse climbs into his car, CDs in hand.

"Just jacked it," Jesse says with a puff of pride.

"Ah, homeboy's getting badass, huh." Emilio gestures to the stereo invitingly. "Throw it in."

Bass thumping, the car peels out of the school parking lot. Jesse, who usually has too much to say, sits silently in the passenger seat while the brief high of theft wears off and leaves him right back where he started: extremely fucked.

After two or three songs, Emilio notices. "The matter wit'chu?"

"Nah, nothing."

"Bullshit. Been like ten minutes and you ain't said shit. That's like a record."

"Got suspended," Jesse mutters. "For, like, cheating on a quiz."

"Yeah?" Emilio says, a grin spreading over his face. "We in the same club now, haaa. Free holiday! Do whatever the fuck you want from now on. What's wrong with that?"

"My parents are gonna kill me," Jesse replies, his face buried in his hands.

"The hell can they do about it? Yo, seriously, you give those bitches way too much credit. They already cut your cash flow, right? Like a month ago. What're they gonna do? Lock you up in your room? Ain't nobody control you 'less you let 'em. So don't let 'em."

"Yeah, but I was so close to getting my money back," Jesse sighs. "Now I'm screwed for, like, ever. I was saving up for a fucking car. Jesus… This blows so hard."

"If it's just cash you're worried 'bout, I got something."

"What? Like a loan?"

"Fuck you, I ain't loaning you shit. Nah, something better. You got a lotta free time now, right? I got something."

* * *

The sun's not even down yet, but there's a party already in full swing when Emilio's car rolls up to the house. The place doesn't seem like it actually belongs to anyone. No one could possibly live there, with how messed up it looks. It's covered in graffiti and part of the roof's collapsing in on the far side, near the back. But inside, lights are flashing and music's pounding, and people are stumbling in and out and into each other. Shoulders tense, Jesse keeps his arms drawn close to himself as Emilio leads him up to the door and into the shack.

Once inside, Jesse realizes that this party hasn't been going for just one day. It might have been going for weeks. Maybe it never stops. He's never seen a place like this before. He's got the sense that any one of these people might rush him and knife him at any second, even though they're distracted with dancing and smoking right now. If he makes one wrong move, if he even looks at someone funny…

"Yo," Jesse says, reaching out to tug Emilio's sleeve. "Maybe this isn't such a—"

"Kraze!" Emilio exclaims before Jesse can finish the thought. He throws his arms up to embrace someone who looks like a real, live gangbanger. Jesse's eyes widen. He had no idea Emilio had the fucking balls to hang out with that type, let alone get all touchy with them. But the explanation comes a second later, as Emilio swings back around to gesture at Jesse. "This my homie, Jesse. Jesse, this my cousin, Krazy-8."

"R-Right on," Jesse stammers, holding his hand out politely. "Nice to—"

The guy called Krazy-8 takes one look at Jesse's proffered hand and snickers. "Can't tell if he's a joker or if he's just white as Wonderbread. You're funny, little man. Really funny." He slaps Jesse on the shoulder instead, nodding over his shoulder. "'ey, let's go to the back. Too loud out here for talking business."

Jesse gives Emilio a puzzled glance at the mention of business, but Emilio's already moving to follow Krazy-8 to the back of the house. Jesse scrambles to keep up, jostled several times along the way by too-fucked-up partygoers.

The music's still coming in loud through the walls, but there's just the three of them there, in a room lit by a single black bulb overhead and some strings of red Christmas lights. The windows have garbage bags taped to them to keep out the setting sun. Jesse nearly trips on an overturned chair as he makes his way to the tattered sofa where Emilio is settling in. Kraze, meanwhile, leaves them momentarily to retrieve something from a low cabinet a few feet away.

"Pretty sweet crib you got," Jesse says, trying to sound earnest.

"Tch," comes Krazy-8's response from the corner. It sounds like he's hammering something, but Jesse can't see what it is. "Ain't my crib."

"Oh."

Emilio rolls his eyes in Jesse's direction, then cuts in, "Me and Jesse go way back, Kraze. He's cool."

"Yeah? Looks like a little pussy to me." Krazy-8 turns back to them with a CD in hand. As he gets closer, Jesse can see streaks of white on it, glowing under the black light. Streaks of powder. "That's okay. I like pussy." The smile he gives Jesse is amicable enough as the CD gets passed over, along with a rolled-up dollar bill.

"Um," is all Jesse can manage, taking both items and staring down at them as if they might bite him.

"What's up?" Kraze asks, brow drawing together.

"I don't do coke," Jesse says, giving Krazy-8 an apologetic grimace.

"You blind? That ain't coke."

"That's scante," Emilio says with a laugh. "Hit it, Jess. You'll love that shit."

Jesse's hands are shaking. He's glad it's so dark in here they probably can't tell. "I don't…"

"Emilio," Krazy-8 says, turning to his cousin. "You didn't bring a little narc bitch into my place, did you?"

"Nah, nah, nah," Emilio says with a wave of his hand. "Jesse ain't a narc. He's just a pussy white boy. Hit that shit, Jesse. We ain't got all day."

"No, yeah," Jesse says, shaking his head, then nodding, then lifting the dollar bill. "It's cool. I was just saying. Yeah, scante's totally cool."

Krazy-8 folds his arms and fixes a stare on Jesse, waiting.

Jesse swallows and lowers his eyes to look at the lines of meth drawn across the CD. It doesn't look like a lot. There's three lines there and he's not sure if it's all meant for him or if they're supposed to share. One should be enough, right? He thinks so. He leans over, bringing the straw to his nose, and sniffs hard like he's got a bad cold.

He's been shot. He's so sure. It feels exactly like someone just whipped out a gun and shot him in the head. Hissing in pain, he jerks back with his eyes squeezed shut, the CD and dollar falling from his hands. He can barely hear Krazy-8 and Emilio laughing at him over the roaring in his ears. His eyes sting and tears roll down his cheeks. It's exactly like that time he got hit in the face by a basketball in gym class and he had to go to the nurse to see if his nose was broken. It bled all down his shirt and he was so humiliated.

Yeah, it's exactly like that. He feels humiliated now, too. He's pretty sure that wasn't even meth he just snorted. He doesn't feel anything but pain. They probably just gave him baking soda or some shit. Wiping at his nose, Jesse finally opens his eyes to shoot a glare at Emilio. That dude's supposed to be his friend, and he's just laughing and laughing. "Fuck you," Jesse mumbles, hauling himself up off the sofa. "Fuck both you guys. I'm gonna—"

His heart is pounding so fast all of a sudden. He didn't notice that until he got to his feet. Now that he's blinked his tears away, the room comes into sharp focus. He finds himself staring into Krazy-8's eyes as the guy grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him back down to the couch. "Where you going, holmes?" Kraze sneers. "This party just started and we ain't even talked business yet."

"What business?" Jesse asks. The pounding seems to be spreading from his heart to his limbs now, a vibration hitting him from the inside out. He feels electrified. It's like someone took his terror and extracted the fear from it, leaving only the adrenaline rush. His fingers curl into the couch cushions, gripping them.

"You needed money, right, Jesse?" Emilio speaks up, right beside him. "It's cool. We got you covered."

"What?"

"You like that product?" Krazy-8 asks with a grin, gesturing to the CD and the powder scattered on the sofa. "Emilio cooked that up. He been trying to get into the business, looking for a partner. He tells me you're the man for the job. Well?"

"Huh?"

"Are you?"

Jesse wipes his nose with his sleeve, wide eyes darting from Emilio to Krazy-8. It takes him a minute to put it together. "Like—Like dealing?"

"Ain't a big deal, right?" Emilio says. "You used to sell weed. Same thing."

"Yeah, but—" But his mom had thrown away his stash and his dad nearly sent him to military school.

"Forget weed," Kraze says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "This shit's where the real money's at."

"No more schoolboy shit." Emilio slaps Jesse's shoulder, grinning proudly. "We gonna be real players. Whatcha think, Jesse?"

"Uhh," is Jesse's response. It's all coming at him so fast. He thought they were just here to party. He had no idea he was being recruited into… What is this? It's not a gang, is it? No, it's just Emilio's cousin. Like a family operation. It's not a big deal, right? Yeah, what's the difference between slinging pot and slinging crank? Money. Money's the only difference. And Emilio's so excited about this, Jesse can see just by looking at him. It means a lot to him. Out of everyone, Emilio's asking _him_ to deal. Because they're friends. Emilio's trusting him with this. Trusting him to get into some real gangsta shit.

Yeah, they're going to be badasses together.

"Fuck yeah!" Jesse bursts out, overcome with excitement. "Fuck yeah, I'm in!" Emilio pounds his fist and they both let out a roaring cheer.

Krazy-8 allows them their moment of celebration, smiling with a mellow gratification of his own that speaks to everything going exactly the way he planned. He gives Jesse a congratulatory pat on the shoulder, then says, "Let's get some bitches in here and get the real party started."

* * *

"Jesse Bruce Pinkman, where have you _been?_"

Not two seconds in the door and he's already hearing it. Jesse ignores her, going straight for the stairs, but his mother follows him all the way up, yammering the whole time.

"It is _six hours_ past your curfew, young man. Do you have any idea how sick with worry we've been? Your father had to go to bed because some of us are productive members of society and have work in the morning, but you'd better believe he's going to have words with you tomorrow after youth group. Yes, sir. And don't think we aren't going to discuss that phone call we got from Mr. White earlier—"

Jesse slams his bedroom door in her face and locks it behind him.

"Jesse," she hisses, keeping her voice low so she doesn't wake up his dad and Jake. "Jesse, you open the door right this minute."

He ignores her, his attention caught by the pile of sketchbooks sitting on his desk. He's been partying and fucking for hours, and it's almost dawn now, but he still isn't even remotely tired, and now all he wants to do is pick up a pencil and start drawing.

So he does. He sits down on the floor with his sketchbook and draws and draws and draws. He doesn't notice when his mother gives up on trying to talk to him, and doesn't notice when she returns long after sunrise to try to get him to come out, and he's still drawing late into the afternoon when there's a buzzing sound at the door before it finally swings open and there's his mother holding an electric drill in one hand and the whole goddamn doorknob in the other, looking frightened now instead of furious.

"Jesse," she breathes.

He looks up from his work, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed from staring so hard all night and day. Papers lie scattered on the floor all around him, every inch of every page covered with sketches. "What?" he asks. "I'm trying to work here."

"My God, Jesse," she says, bringing one hand to her heart. "I almost called 911. I thought something terrible happened. You weren't saying anything. I—You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Jesus, mom, it's been like ten minutes. Chill."

Instead of responding, she marches across the room to pull back the curtains. Sunlight streams in through the window, temporarily blinding Jesse. And stunning him. He had no idea it'd been that long.

"You're high, aren't you?" she says, setting everything down on his desk so she can grab his face with both hands. "It's the marijuana, isn't it? I can see it, you know. Look at your eyes."

"I'm not high," he says, jerking back and pushing her hands away.

"That's it," she says, straightening up again. "I'm calling your father and then we're going straight to the hospital. You're cleaning up once and for all, so help me God." Before Jesse can utter a word of protest, she storms out of the room, and he can hear her dialing the phone in the master bedroom.

Fuck that. Jesse shoves his sketchbooks and papers into his backpack, grabs a few extra shirts and boxers out of his dresser and shoves those into his bag, too, then makes a break for it. He creeps down the stairs quietly, so his mother won't notice, bolts for the front door, and jumps onto his bike to speed off down the street before she's even had a chance to hang up.

* * *

Jesse pulls the gates shut once he's parked his bike inside. They're old gates, so they make a loud scraping noise as they drag across the pavement. Aunt Ginny must have heard them, because a moment later she appears at the back door. "Jesse?" she says, stepping out onto the driveway. "Did school let out early?"

"I'm suspended," he tells her as he swings an arm around her for a light hug. "Mom's real mad. You think I could—?"

"Oh, honey," she says, patting him on the cheek. "Of course you can stay."

Ginny always understands. She leads him inside, and he drops his backpack off by the back door on the way into the kitchen, where fresh peanut brittle is waiting. Jesse hasn't eaten, and he wasn't very hungry until now, but he settles down at the table to nibble on a square.

"Your mother's always been very concerned with education," Ginny says, bringing over a cup of coffee. "She means well, but she doesn't understand minds like ours. These schools, they're all about rote learning. Memorization. You and I, we're creative spirits. We thrive in an open environment. We have trouble when we're constrained by the limits of ordinary expectations. Grades, exam scores… All these numbers. Ultimately, they hold no meaning. _Passion_. That's what's important in life."

"Totally," Jesse says. "Yeah, passion. Like, the whole school thing's such a waste of time, you know? Mom's all pissed at me 'cause I stayed up all night drawing, 'cause she wanted to sit me down and tell me how bad I fucked up at school. But it's like, yo, _I get it_. I suck at school. I'm gonna focus on what I'm good at instead. You know?"

"I think that's wonderful, Jesse. I don't think it benefits anyone to focus on misfortunes. After all, you're already suspended. There's nothing to be done about that. And creativity is the best outlet for getting through life's disappoint—"

There's a knock at the door.

Jesse groans, but Ginny pats him on the top of his head. "I'll talk to her. You just stay here and eat."

She disappears into the other room, and a moment later the door opens and Jesse can hear his mother talking in a hushed but angry tone with her sister. "Don't tell me he isn't here. I saw his bike in the driveway."

"He's just as upset about the suspension as you are," Ginny replies genially. "Give him some time, won't you? All that pressure you're putting on him isn't doing him any good. Give him space. Give him a moment to breathe and to process. For God's sake, you were on his back for _drawing_."

"He was out all night, Ginny. All night! Doing God-knows-what with who-the-heck-knows. And I'm not on his back for drawing. I'm on his back because _he's high_. You can see that, can't you? It's plain as day! You saw his eyes, didn't you?"

Ginny's voice lowers, but Jesse can still hear her: "It looks to me like he's been crying."

"Oh, he is just playing you like a fiddle, isn't he. And you're content to let him."

"Sweetheart, he's a lost soul. He needs guidance and nurturing. Can't you see that? He's your son. Don't talk about him as if he's some degenerate junkie."

"He's going to _become_ a degenerate junkie if you keep enabling this behavior, Ginny!"

"A couple of joints every now and then does not a junkie make. You're being ridiculous and histrionic and I refuse to allow you and that stick-in-the-mud husband of yours to berate and abuse that poor boy over perfectly normal teenage behavior."

"You know what, Ginny. You're right. He's my son. Not yours. Now get out of my way."

Jesse's already on his feet, out the back door, and back on his bike before his mother reaches the kitchen.

* * *

"So wait," Badger says, holding up the rock to the light and squinting at it in deep concentration, "do you smoke it or snort it? I thought you were supposed to smoke it."

"However you wanna do it," Jesse explains. "Emilio says some people stick it up their butts."

"Yo, that sounds totally gay," Badger laughs.

"Don't look at me," Jesse says, holding up his hands in defense. "I didn't say _I'd_ stick it up my butt."

"How'd it feel?" Pete asks, leaning forward. "I mean, when you snorted it."

"Good, yeah," Jesse lies. "You know, it was like, _bam_. Like a punch in the face. Like getting woke up. Like pure energy, yo. I was totally on fire. I owned that whole party. Had like ten bitches riding my dick last night."

Badger rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right."

"It's true! I got it on video!"

"You got a sex tape?" Pete's eyes widen. "Shit, let's see it!"

"Oh my God, we are _not_ watching Jesse's sex tape," Badger grumbles. "Gag me."

Jesse ignores them, gesturing to the wall of tools. "Pass me that thing. Gotta crush it up."

The three of them are in Badger's basement. Or, rather, Badger's dad's man cave. But the Mayhews aren't home right now, which is perfect for the boys and especially for Jesse, who's still hiding from his mother. They're sitting in a circle around the card table. Badger leans back to grab the hammer from the wall, warning as he hands it over, "Try not to bang up the table too bad."

It's a cheap table, but the crystal doesn't take too much pounding to crush into powder. Jesse cuts the meth into three lines and rolls up a dollar bill. "Ladies first," he says, handing the straw over to Badger.

"Oh ha _ha_, very funny," Badger replies dryly, taking the dollar. He stares at it for a second, then glances back to Jesse. "You sure about this? The meth, I mean. Like… This stuff's supposed to be pretty bad, right?"

"Bad for you, yeah. Like how marijuana kills, right? Come on, you little bitch. Enough with the D.A.R.E. bullshit. Hit it or give it to Skinny, if you're too pussy."

"Nah, I just… Whatever." He dips down and snorts his rail off the tabletop. A second later, he's launched out of his chair, fists pumping. "Aw, aw, aw shit! Hoo, wow! Holy _shit!_"

"Don't keep me all in suspense, yo," Pete says, snatching the dollar from Badger's hand. He takes his hit, too, and soon the two of them are hopping in circles around the table together.

"Yeah, see?" Jesse says, his head bobbing in exhilaration. "See? What'd I tell you?" He bows down to sniff the last line, and it still hurts like a motherfucker for the first half-minute, but then that feeling of superhuman power washes over him again and he finds himself joining his friends in running around the basement, leaping over and onto the old furniture.

Hours pass as the three of them cycle through video games. Eventually, Skinny Pete's brother comes to pick him up for dinner and it's just Jesse and Badger left, still riding the high. They spend a few minutes wrestling on the dusty floor before collapsing there.

"Hey, Badger," Jesse says when silence falls.

"Yeah?"

"Where's your parents?"

"Fresno, visiting my uncle. Why?"

"Think I could crash here a few nights?"

"Yeah," Badger answers without thinking. A second later, his brow furrows. "Wait, um… Like, just one night. They'll be back tomorrow. I think."

"Cool."

"Hey, Jess. About that money…"

"Ah, yeah," Jesse says, sitting up to dig around in the pocket of his jeans.

"Hold on, I was gonna say sorry for—"

"Here," Jesse says, holding out a stack of twenties. "Oughta cover it, right?"

Badger forgets whatever he was saying, his eyes glazing over dreamily at the sight of the dough. He takes the wad and flips through it, counting the bills. "Oh yeah," he breathes. "This'll cover it."

* * *

Jesse leans forward as Emilio pulls off of Central and into the parking lot, squinting up at the sign glowing overhead. "A motel?" he questions skeptically.

"What?" Emilio replies. "You didn't think we'd be cooking at my house, did you?"

"Nah, just… Kinda dangerous, ain't it?"

"Nobody gonna catch us," Emilio shrugs, shifting to a stop.

Jesse glances over his shoulder to the shopping bags in the back seat. "I mean, like, chemically."

Emilio snorts without answer and climbs out of the car. Jesse gives one more uncertain look at the Crossroads Motel sign, then follows suit.

The place is an actual shithole. Jesse isn't sure what he expected, but he's never been in a hotel this shitty and he can't believe anyone would spend a single dollar to stay here. He catches sight of a few fellow patrons and every single one of them looks like they'd shank him and steal his wallet—prostitutes included. He's glad he's with Emilio, who manages to look tougher than him even though he's smaller. Still, they're two seventeen-year-olds on their own. Not exactly a scary pair.

As they make their way up to their room, Jesse whispers, "So, um, when's Kraze gonna be here?"

"Huh?" is Emilio's response. "Kraze ain't coming. Just us cooking. He don't do this shit."

"Oh."

"Chill," Emilio says, catching that terrified look on Jesse's face. "Ain't nobody gonna mess with us. They know my cuz would bust a cap in their asses if they did."

The room itself is as terrible as the exterior, stinking of cigarettes and old sex. It reminds Jesse of that party house where he met Krazy-8, in fact—only he's not nearly high enough right now to consider rolling around in these bedsheets. As soon as the door's shut, he pulls out a joint and lights up.

"Haa," Emilio says before snatching the joint out of Jesse's mouth to take a hit himself. "Good idea, _ese_."

Once they've finished the joint between the two of them, they get to setting up the lab. As Emilio starts unpacking the bags onto the table, Jesse points to the coffee pot. "So, uh… We cooking in that thing?"

Emilio glances at it and laughs. "You watch too much fucking Fox News." He gestures in the direction of the bathroom. "We cooking in the tub. That shit's later, though. First we gotta scrape some matches."

It's tedious work. About twenty minutes into it, Jesse starts wishing he was back in Mr. White's chemistry class, where he could at least take a nap in the back of the room until the hour was up. He didn't think it'd take so much effort just to get the ingredients ready.

Not to mention the stress of the whole thing. Anytime a shadow passes by the curtained windows or he hears someone talking through the walls, his nerves are on edge. He tells himself the money's worth it. That fat advance he got from Kraze the other night was a good start, right? Soon he and Emilio will be rolling in it. So a few hours in a stanky motel room is nothing for that kind of cash.

When break time rolls around and they're sitting on the bed eating snacks they picked up from the vending machine, Jesse gives Emilio an uncomfortable glance. "So, hey, um…"

"Nah," Emilio answers without waiting. "No girls in here. We gotta get another room if we're doing that."

"What? N-No, I was gonna say. Um. Think I could crash at your place tonight?"

Emilio laughs, nearly choking on his potato chips. "Yeah? Where? Between my three sisters and my second-cousins? Ain't no mansion with a guest house, white boy. You run outta money already or what?"

"Yo, all this shit was expensive," Jesse says defensively, gesturing to the supplies.

"You gonna have to go home to mommy eventually," Emilio says. "But we got the room for three days, you know. Stay here if you wanna."

Jesse looks down at the stained sheets, the cigarette-charred carpet, the makings of a meth lab sitting on the table across from him. In a few hours, this place will be filled with fumes, and though Emilio doesn't think they're a big deal, Jesse kind of sort of thinks they're deadly. Like maybe not as bad as D.A.R.E. says, but still bad, probably. His eyes turn to the door, where the latch looks like it's been busted in at least once or twice. Outside, he can hear a whore screeching at some john who just ripped her off and police sirens wailing in the distance. He thinks about his bedroom back home and his clean sheets and warm blankets and the pot roast his mom probably has sitting in the oven and the shower with spotless white tiles and definitely no meth lab sitting under it.

"I gotta pick up some clothes anyway," Jesse mumbles.

* * *

It's around midnight when Emilio drops Jesse off in front of the Pinkman home. He tries to sneak in as quietly as he can, but his parents must have heard the loud rumble of Emilio's exhaust, because they're waiting for Jesse at the top of the stairs. They're in their pajamas. They've probably just woken up.

"You didn't even call," his mother says.

"You took my phone away, remember?" Jesse snaps, shouldering past them.

They follow him to his room like a pair of vultures, ready to tear him apart. "We nearly contacted the police," his father says.

"Why didn't you, then?"

"Because we don't want you in jail, Jesse," his mother answers. "And we didn't know what state you'd be in. If you'd be high, or—"

"Well, I'm not," he says, dropping his backpack to the floor as he wheels around to face them. "And I wasn't high the other day, either. It's like Aunt Ginny told you. I was _upset_."

"We'll see what the drug test has to say about that," his father says.

"Dad—"

His father holds up a hand to stop him there. "This is non-negotiable, Jesse. Your performance has been suffering this entire year and it's clear to us why that is. Now, if you insist on continuing to lie to us, we have no choice but to obtain proof for ourselves. And since you're no longer capable of attending Wynne—nor do you have any desire to—then we're forced to arrange for you to be sent to boarding school."

"But—"

"We've discussed this," his mother says, folding her arms. "Over and over again. You said you'd go to youth group. You said you'd keep up with your tutoring. You said you'd pull your grades up. Now… Now you're _cheating_. Is this really how you want to live your life? Slacking off and taking advantage of other people?"

"Mom," Jesse cries, blinking back tears as he looks between his parents, "Dad. I was only cheating 'cause I was scared of what'd happen if I got a bad grade. 'cause of all that stuff you said. I didn't wanna fail, but I'm no good at chemistry. It's too much—I dunno. I just don't get any of it, okay, no matter how hard I try. It's too much memorizing. I can't hold all that stuff in my head. I try and I'm not good enough. But I really am trying. And—And yeah, I smoked some pot the other day, but it's only 'cause I was so freaked out about getting suspended. But it didn't help, and I know that, and I'm really, really sorry."

He clasps his hands together in supplication, stepping forward. "Please. _Please_ don't send me to boarding school. I'll try harder. I promise."

His father shakes his head, unmoved. "We can't have you in this house as long as you're on drugs. We can't have you around your little brother when you're like this. It's boarding school or rehab, Jesse. Those are your choices."

Jesse lets out a wail, scrubbing his hands over his face. He turns back to his mother, pleading, "What if—What if I stay with Aunt Ginny for a while?"

His mother starts to shake her head.

"No, no, no—listen! What if I stay with Aunt Ginny and go to… Like, what if I go to that vo-tech school? The one right down the road from her place. See? That way I can still go to school, and I bet I'll get better grades there 'cause—'cause, you know, it's more hands-on stuff, and I'm good with that. And I'll stay outta trouble. And Aunt Ginny'll make sure I don't do drugs or anything like that. And Jake'll be okay here, and you don't have to worry about him and me, and it won't even cost a buncha money like rehab or boarding school or something like that."

A silence falls. His parents actually seem to be considering this proposition. They exchange a glance.

"We'll discuss this in the morning," his father says. "Take a bath and go to bed. You smell like a sewer." Leaving no room for argument, he turns around and walks out the room.

His mother lingers for a moment, looking at Jesse with an expression of mixed disappointment and concern. "Go ahead and leave those in the laundry room," she says finally, nodding to his clothes. "And make sure you get some sleep, sweetheart."

"Mom," Jesse whimpers, wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. "You're not really gonna send me away, are you?"

She sighs and reaches up to cup his cheek. "Don't let us down again."

"I won't," he replies with a sniffle. "I promise."

She gives him a strained smile before drawing away and walking back to her bedroom. Jesse watches her go, then notices the door to Jake's room is open just a crack. A tiny face peeks out at him, and who can even guess how long it's been there. When Jesse lifts a hand to wave, his baby brother disappears back into the shadows of his room and the door shuts.

* * *

"Emilio! Hey. Yeah, listen. About the, um… The thing. I think I'm out. You know, like—like once I paid you back and all. So I guess you oughta start looking for another partner. Or I bet I could find somebody for you. My boys are solid, yo. Bet you'd have your pick, once they see the kinda cash we're pulling in. Anyway, call me back. Or… Yeah. We'll talk about it. Peace."

Jesse flips his burner shut and slides it back into the pocket of his jeans. He's got a few hours before Aunt Ginny expects him back for dinner and a lot of teenths to get rid of before then. No way he's selling them all, he figures. He's not used to the tweaker crowd. He's not even sure what spots to hit up. West side, obviously, but there's a whole lot of it and he doesn't know which corners belong to Kraze and which belong to the rivals. Jesus, back when he was selling pot, he mostly sold it at school. He wishes Emilio had picked up. Maybe he'd have some pointers here.

Wal-mart's probably safe. He takes the bus there and plants himself by the door opposite of where the hookers are hanging. The traffic's good there. He makes a couple hundred before a creepy old dude drives up in a Cadillac and tries to get Jesse into it.

Jesse decides to move the fuck on after that. He hops on a bus back up to Central and winds up at the Dog House. There's a motel right next to it and he knows for sure he's seen tweakers coming in and out of there all hours of the day. It's a good instinct. He ends up unloading almost all of the product, saving the last teenth for himself. Hell, he should celebrate before he hits the straight and narrow, right?

He's on his way back to the bus stop when he hears someone call him over his shoulder. "Yo, Jesse! That you?"

Jesse spins around just in time to get clapped on the shoulder by Combo. "Holy shit!" Jesse exclaims with a great big grin, slapping Combo on the arm in return. "My boy's back. Yo, how was Mexico?"

"Shitty," Combo says, shaking his head. "My _abuela_ wouldn't let me leave the house, like, ever. All we did was watch telenovelas the whole time. And I don't even speak Spanish."

"Lame," Jesse says. "Hey, you wanna celebrate with me?"

"You even gotta ask?" Combo laughs. "What're we celebrating?"

"Making bank."

They head into the motel lot, where there's less of a crowd, and plant themselves on the stairs leading up to the second story. "Oh hell yeah," Combo says when Jesse pulls out his last baggie. "Crank? I did that once, like a couple months back. Been dying to get more."

"Cooked this up with Emilio," Jesse brags.

"For real?"

"Yup. Just the two of us, one hundred percent original product. Sold out just now. This is the last of it, so you better enjoy."

"Well, let's grind that shit up and hit it."

They get back on the bus once they're good and spun, and somehow they end up outside a car wash. It's more entertaining than it should be. They end up circling the place, throwing rocks up and trying to hit the stupid giant roof that looks more like a weird slanted wall.

"I'm thinking of retiring though," Jesse mentions as he picks up a pebble.

"What? Already? After making fat stacks like those?"

"I dunno," he shrugs, tossing the pebble up and missing the roof by an inch. "Lotta work, pounding pavement."

"Hell," Combo says, reaching for a chunk of concrete. "Wouldn't mind getting paid a hundred an hour or something just for hanging 'round the Dog House."

Combo's got a point. Jesse's not entirely sure why he's giving it up, now that he thinks about it. He opens his mouth to mention that Emilio's going to be looking for a new partner, if Combo's that interested, but he's interrupted by the sound of breaking glass.

"Oh shit," Combo snickers, his hands flying to his mouth before he takes off in the other direction.

It takes Jesse a second to realize there's a security alarm going off. Then he turns to bolt after Combo. But Combo's already way ahead of him, and a second later he disappears around the side of the strip mall. Jesse's attention is so focused on catching up that he doesn't notice the flash of red and blue lights until the police car pulls up in front of him, cutting him off from his escape.

* * *

"This is the last straw," his mother says as they walk out of the police station. "I don't know _what_ I'm going to tell your father."

"I didn't even do it!" Jesse protests.

"Then who did, Jesse?" his mother demands, spinning to face him.

Jesse's mouth clamps shut. He can't tell that much. No way is he going to rat out Combo. He's sure Combo didn't mean to ditch him like that. It's just that he was all amped up.

"That's what I thought."

"Mom, I—"

"_No_," she snaps, jabbing a finger in his face. "No, you listen to me. We've had enough of this. How many chances do you expect us to give you? This isn't how we raised our son. Our son isn't some delinquent, getting high and breaking into buildings. Do you even know how lucky you are, that they settled for payment without pressing charges? Do you? Well, I wish they _had_ pressed charges. Maybe then you'd learn there are consequences for your actions."

Jesse clenches his jaw, biting back the words he so desperately wants to say. He wants to tell her what really happened. He wants to tell her how he accidentally got mixed up in something bigger than he expected, and that now he knows better, and that he was just about to walk away from it and keep his promise and do good from now on. He wants to tell her how much he's actually enjoying vo-tech classes and he thinks he might've found something he's really good at and he doesn't even like meth, let alone selling it. He's just scared. He's really, really scared. And he just lost everything he earned to paying some car wash owner for a broken window and now he owes hundreds of dollars to a gangster who's probably going to break his legs or maybe shoot him in the head.

Instead, he asks shakily, "Can we just go home?"

"You're not going home, Jesse," his mother says coldly, turning away. "You're not welcome there anymore. I'm taking you back to Ginny's. If she wants you to be her problem so much, she can have you."

* * *

The door to their motel meth lab swings open. Jesse rolls over and sits up, scrambling until his back is resting against the mirrored headboard. He relaxes after a moment, but only barely. It's just Emilio. But Emilio looks pissed.

"Ah, you actually showed up," he huffs.

"Yeah," Jesse mumbles. "Yeah. I, um…"

"The fuck was that message about?"

Jesse climbs up off the bed, wringing his hands. "Yeah, about that. Listen, something happened—"

"Oh, what?" Emilio sneers. "Mommy grounded you?"

"Come on, man," Jesse pleads, his shoulders sinking. "I mean it. Something serious happened."

Emilio pauses halfway through locking the door, fixing a chilly stare on Jesse. "You didn't get busted, did you?"

There's something about the tone of his voice that sends a shiver down Jesse's spine, and he shakes his head fervently. "What? No. No, no—" Well, kind of. But how's that going to sound now? Yeah, he was in police custody, but for something totally unrelated. Sure. Everybody will totally buy that. "—I mean. Something else. Happened."

Emilio doesn't say anything. He doesn't even blink.

"I, uh. I got ripped off. This dude… He totally pulled a gun on me. Took all the cash I got from that batch. Like, seriously. All of it."

"You fucking serious?" Emilio steps up to Jesse, his chin jutting forward. "You little bitch. That's my cousin's money. He fronted us everything."

"I know!" Jesse cries, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I know. We're so goddamn screwed, Emilio. I swear to God, there wasn't anything I could do."

Emilio shoves Jesse roughly, sending him sprawling back onto the bed. "Fuck!" he spits. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"But he's your cousin, ain't he?" Jesse whimpers, staying on the bed this time. "Like… He'll understand, won't he?"

"I told you, didn't I? This ain't no grade school shit, _pendejo_. This is the real game. He's gonna cut off our nutsacks and feed 'em to us." Emilio kicks out one leg, flipping the sidetable over and splintering the wood. "_Shit_."

Jesse looks down, then over to the door. This was a bad idea, coming here. Maybe he should've tried stealing the money from his parents or Ginny or someone's car before returning to the motel.

"You sold all of it?" Emilio asks, turning back to him with a desperate, distant hope in his eyes for a negative. "There's nothing left? You sure?"

"I sold the whole batch," Jesse replies helplessly. "It sold… It sold real good."

"_Shit_."

Heavy dread fills the space between them. For a minute, neither has anything to say. They're both just left imagining what Emilio's big cousin and his gang are going to do to them.

Then Jesse sits forward again. "Hold up," he says, looking at Emilio. "You talked to him yet? Since the cook."

"Not yet," Emilio says. "Was saving it for when I had some fucking cash to hand him."

"So tell him we fucked it up," Jesse says. "Right? Tell him the batch went bad. Like, we made a mistake and it came out too dirty to sell and we had to toss it. Better than getting ripped off, right? He knew it was a risk, right? Like, we're new to this. So…"

Emilio considers this, then nods slowly. "Yeah," he murmurs, thoughtful. "Yeah. A bad cook."

Jesse nods enthusiastically, biting his lower lip.

"He's gonna want us to pay him back, though," Emilio points out. "Probably want us to pay him back double. We're gonna be paying him off for months. Probably won't see a fucking dime for ourselves 'til summer."

"I'll owe you," Jesse says, crawling across the bed on hands and knees to literally kowtow before Emilio. "We pay him back, then I pay you back. Okay? Like it never happened. I swear to God. Just don't tell him I lost the money. Please."

Emilio shakes his head, but he says, "Okay. Okay, you stupid little pussy bitch. Jesus, why'd I ever cut you in…"

"Thank you," Jesse whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Shut up, faggot," Emilio hisses. "Get your ass up and get the next cook started. I'm gonna go out and call him."

* * *

Jesse gets up to clear the dinner table, stacking his and Ginny's plates on his arm. "Thank you, sweetheart," she says with a smile, patting his elbow gently. "It's such a help, having you around. I feel like I should be paying you for your trouble."

"Ain't no trouble, Aunt Ginny," Jesse says, walking over to the garbage can to dump the scraps into it. "Least I could do, you cooking and all."

"Oh, make sure you put the lid on tight when you're done. I've been hearing that skittering in the walls again."

"Raccoon, you think?" Jesse says, looking up.

"Raccoon, possum, rat," Ginny answers with a shrug. "Who knows. Whatever critter it is, we don't want it in the garbage."

Jesse nods, securing the lid over the wastebasket, then walks over to the sink to rinse off the plates. "So, um... Me and Emilio were thinking of catching a movie."

"Tonight? Isn't that a bit late for a school night?"

"I got all my homework done," Jesse lies. "Plus, um... He's been kinda down. Was hoping this'd get his mind off some stuff."

"Mmm," Ginny muses. "I know your mother never approved of that boy. He comes from a troubled home, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that. But he's a good guy."

"You should invite him over sometime. I'd love to meet him." She reaches for her purse, pulling out a twenty dollar bill and sliding it across the table, closer to Jesse. "Why don't you treat him?"

Jesse turns from the sink to look at the money. "Seriously?"

Something unexpected happens: a twist in his gut that feels dangerously like guilt. He considers, for a second, pretending like he's decided he's too tired for a movie after all. But between the twenty and the change he's got upstairs, he might be able to score a quarter tonight. Enough to get him through to next week. And he needs that stuff to get through vo-tech or else he falls asleep. The meth's the only thing that's been helping him pull his grades up. So that's a good thing, right?

He reaches for the twenty and stuffs it into his pocket. "Thanks, Aunt Ginny."

* * *

The _THUMP THUMP THUMP_ of local hip hop beats shake the walls of the house. Jesse weaves through the crowd with his posse just steps behind him, all of them looking around in awe except Emilio, who's forever unimpressed by parties, no matter how kicking they are. Jesse tries to lead like he knows where he's going, but he doesn't really.

Emilio figures that out soon enough and shoves ahead of him. "You ain't seen nothing," he says around his cigarette, glancing back to Combo and Skinny. "Imma take you up to the VIP room. Wait 'til you see the bitches waiting for us up there. Make these girls down here look like real dogs."

Jesse finds that pretty hard to believe, and so do Combo and Skinny, judging by the way their eyebrows raise. These ladies are already smoking hot, curvier than the hottest cheerleaders in school, and they're working their bodies in ways that schoolgirls can't possibly. One of them even takes hold of Jesse by the chin, grinding up on him hard enough to elicit a moan before Emilio grabs him by the arm of his hoodie and tugs him away from her.

"Don't tell me you're gonna blow your load already," he taunts. "At least do it on a bitch's face, not in your pants."

"Eat me," Jesse snaps back, his cheeks burning.

The second and third floors of the house are cordoned off, but the muscle let them through when they see Emilio. The VIP room turns out to be the master bedroom, and Emilio was right: somehow, the ladies are even hotter up here. "Emilio!" one of them squeals, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Her eyes land on Jesse and she sucks in her lower lip and gives him a teasing smile. "Who's your friend?"

"Cap'n Cook," Jesse answers with a stupid grin of his own.

"Oh, no shit?" she gasps, glancing back to her friends, who are all gathered around a table, doing rails. "You're the cook?"

"_Both_ of us cook the shit," Emilio corrects her, irritated.

"He's my sidekick," Jesse jokes.

The girl laughs, though Emilio doesn't seem to find it funny. Before things have a chance to get too tense, she's sliding off Emilio and draping over Jesse instead. "Well," she says, "why don't you tell me all about it in private, Cap'n?"

"Aye, aye!"

She takes him by the hand and leads him down the hall toward one of the unoccupied bedrooms. Most of Jesse's attention is focused on her ass, its perfect roundness emphasized by the sequined dress she's wearing, so he doesn't notice Krazy-8's approach until the guy's hand is around the back of his neck, seizing him.

"'ey, Jesse," Kraze says, his tone ominous in all its false friendliness. "Crystál, gimme a minute with my homie."

Kraze shuts the bedroom door behind them, slamming Jesse into it face-first. A second later, Jesse feels a cold steel blade press against his throat. "Where's my money, bitch?" he hisses into Jesse's ear.

"I don't—Um, didn't Emilio tell you?"

"Oh yeah, he told me. Bad cook. Except you know what my boys told me? They told me the shit you two cooked was great. Also told me how much they paid you." Kraze presses the blade firmly against Jesse's skin, menacing, as his voice takes on a sneer, "So what's the deal, _Cap'n Cook?_ You stiffing me?"

"I, uh, uh..."

"'Uh, uh, uh,'" Kraze echoes, mocking. "Yes or no, bitch. Yes or no."

"No!" Jesse cries. "No, it's—Look, man, I got jacked, okay?"

"By who?"

"I dunno, man! He just—He came outta nowhere. Wasn't a banger. Just some white guy, okay, just some redneck tweaker with a gun. He took all the cash, Kraze, I swear to God. Emilio knew you'd be pissed about it, so he has us working overtime, you know, 'til—"

"I know you're lying," Krazy-8 whispers into Jesse's ear. "You know what else I know? I know you spent a night in a jail cell. That's how you lost it, right? The money."

"Kraze—"

"That's another yes-or-no question, bitch."

"Okay—Okay, yeah, but I didn't tell 'em anything about the meth. Swear to God, I was just in there for smashing some windows, and nobody even asked about drugs and I didn't talk. Swear to God, I ain't a rat!"

"Yeah, you sure as shit better not be." The blade remains where it is, but Jesse can feel Kraze's other hand move from his neck, sliding down the front of his shirt and then under it, over his bare skin, checking his chest for a wire. The search is agonizingly drawn out, and Jesse gets the feeling that Kraze is doing it on purpose like that. Putting him in his place, sort of. Like they're dogs or something.

When he's apparently satisfied, Krazy-8 brings his lips back to Jesse's ear, "Lie to me again and I'll carve you up so bad your mama won't recognize you. You feel me? You lose my money, I hear about it from you. You end up in a cell, I hear about it from you. You're my boy now. That means you gotta be straight with me. Or else you're gonna have something a whole lot bigger than APD on your ass."

Kraze draws the knife away from Jesse's throat and turns him around to face him, at last. He lays his hand on Jesse's shoulder and squeezes. There's a funny look on his face, a cocked grin that makes him look amused and almost affectionate, which is weird after that string of threats. "Just a warning this time," he says. "But remember: I own you. And you're gonna pay."

* * *

"Ah, the prodigal son returns," Mr. White comments blithely as Jesse steps through the threshold of his chemistry classroom.

Jesse works hard to resist the urge to raise both middle fingers into the air. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the floor and walks straight to his seat in the back corner of the room, where his lab partner Paul's already waiting.

"Well fuck me, look who it is," Paul says with a lopsided grin, voice quiet enough to keep out of Mr. White's earshot. "We thought you dropped out, man."

"Wanted to," Jesse mutters unhappily as he sinks into his chair. School's such an unbelievable waste of time these days. He's been here for two hours and he already can't stand it, thinking of how much money he's losing spending all day in class and not out on the corner. The money just rolls in nowadays, since Kraze got more specific about which neighborhoods he should be selling in. The only thing that's really stopping him from getting rich now is that he doesn't have the time to be out there or in the lab, making more of the shit. How stupid is that? He can't do real chemistry because he's stuck in chemistry class.

"You never called or anything," Paul chides.

"What are you, my mom?"

In retort, Jesse gets an elbow-jab in the side. "It's been ages since we got TwaüghtHammër together for a jam," Paul says. "You know, Battle of the Bands is coming up fast. First prize is five hundred bucks."

Less than Jesse makes in a day out on the streets. "Yeah," he answers with complete disinterest, reaching into his backpack to pull out a textbook he doesn't intend to read and a notebook he only intends to doodle in. "Totally. We'll jam sometime."

"You free after school?"

Jesse shakes his head and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. His nostrils burn lately from snorting. He just took a hit in the bathroom to help him through this snoozefest of a class. Maybe he should knock it off, start smoking more often. "Nah, got a thing tonight." All night, in fact, if he's going to make up for time lost in this stupid fucking high school.

"That's cool," Paul says, sensing Jesse's indifference. "Maybe some other time."

The bell rings, signalling the start of class, and Mr. White catches Jesse's eye with a smile that looks sadistic from this angle, before Jesse blinks hard and looks away.


End file.
